Everything

Yesterday was a day where parenting, politics, poetry, disability and despair intersected (see the title of this blog above), but I won't pull the bow across the violin and let you hear it. Instead, I'll tell you about the pork chops that I dredged in egg and then old-fashioned Progresso bread crumbs and how I didn't give a damn about how processed those crumbs were, how I sauteed the thin chops in olive oil and served them with rice pilaf -- Syrian rice, we called it as children and a bowl of lettuce, tomatoes and vinaigrette. Henry and Oliver loved the dinner, hallelujah and even told me as I fed Sophie in the dining room (they were in the kitchen) where I had moved her to her wheelchair since she had had a huge seizure earlier and couldn't really sit on the stool, even strapped in, but she continued to have them and was drippy, clammy and I felt a pinch of disgust, not at her but at the situation, a pull of anger, the larger Troubles and then I told her, I told myself it's all right, it's ok and

everything you love is right here, in these two rooms.

Literally, everything.